Lupus in Fabula
by klashcroft
Summary: Post bookverse. Dr. Lecter and Clarice are in Paris, but something or someone is watching them. Unfortunately, the good Doctor finds himself distracted by a face from his past that shouldn't exist.


**Disclaimer:** The good doctor and Ms. Starling belong to Thomas Harris. Everything else is my own bastardization. Reviews are welcome; this is my first time posting, so be gentle!

**Lupus in Fabula**

She watched him as he paced past with his usual sinuous grace. It was part of her daily routine, and had been for weeks. She could almost set her watch to him; his sleek form rounded the corner of the Rue de Champlain and headed down the cobblestone street at precisely eleven o'clock in the morning, every day. He had never been more than a few minutes late-- not once.

His gaze never wavered from his course-- always calm, always in complete control. He kept a distance from the rest of crowd; he had a wiry strength and a keen, calculating gaze that seemed to subconsciously alter the paths of the herd around him, lest they stray too close.

She still watched him. He had his hair slicked back again. It made him look like a weasel; an otter—a mink. Some streamlined creature, bred and tested and perfectly adapted to its environment. She pushed the thought out of her mind with a wry smile and followed his back with her eyes until he was around the corner and out of sight. Only then did she return her gaze to the large sheaf of textured paper in her lap.

Her fingers clutched the charcoal absently, and she began to sketch...

He reached the end of the Rue de Champlain, and the road opened up into the busy market square.

Doctor Lecter's nostrils flared slightly as he sniffed the breeze. There were plenty of delicate aromas here; fresh herbs, the gentle scent of a mild cheese. There were more invasive odours, of course; the heavy stench of old fish left too long in the sun. The thick sulfur stink of bad eggs, and the constant reek of unwashed flesh.

It didn't matter. The scents, with only a slight variance, were the same as they had been yesterday, and the day before that. The same, in fact, since he had discovered the market… since he had decided to treat Clarice to a Parisian retreat. Buenos Aries, although intriguing, had been becoming rather wearisome. They would stay in France for a few months, and then move on. Hannibal Lecter did not much care for the nomadic lifestyle, but little sacrifices were often necessary for the greater good. Perhaps they would go someplace a tad more exotic when France became too familiar. China? Japan? Perhaps a small island off the coast of Africa…

His thoughts were rudely interrupted when a shifty little man--a vendor--thrust a large and unidentifiable hunk of meat in his face. He was shouting rapidly in both French and English… in fact, Dr. Lecter's distinguished ear could pick out an entire smattering of languages. Lower-class dribble. He drew himself stiffly back without actually retreating, and his eyes glinted as the shop-keep maintained his rapid-fire commentary.

"You buy, yes? Is good fish! Good, healthy! Buy! Is cheap—I lower price for you, you buy. No other fish this fresh! You want buy, yes?"

"_I think not…_" It was a testament to his will that the doctor was able to keep his tone level and quiet. The vendor, distracted by another prospective customer almost immediately, did not push his wares any further. He would never know how close he had come to peril.

Moving away, Hannibal Lecter wondered whether he should start sending a servant to make the trip to the market for him, but just as quickly dismissed the idea. Clarice would say that he needed the exercise, and although they both knew he was in excellent shape, he very rarely bothered arguing with his wife. Illogical or not, she had a way of getting her point across.

He paused beside a basket of truffles that looked remarkably fresh, and purchased some. His shopping, as per usual, did not take long. The basket was a slight hindrance as he started back up the Rue de Champlain, but he was somewhat relieved to leave the overall noise and confusion of the market and trade it for the subdued murmur of the small cobblestone street.

It was lined with artists. Their easels and benches and paints crowded the sidewalk and pushed pedestrians onto the street. Portraits and landscapes, done primarily in charcoal or pastel, were proudly displayed to all who passed. The artists themselves--ageless men--were dressed in shabby clothing; most had beards peppered in varying shades of grey. They constantly called out to the passing crowd, but did so without losing any of their dignity. It was a remarkable contrast to the venders in the market. These men drew for their bread and wine, but created for their souls.

Lecter kept his eyes ahead of him out of habit, yet his peripheral vision was excellent. He knew each of the men by sight. Every day was the same. Each was stationed behind an easel in the same plot of pavement where he had been the previous day--and most likely, the previous year as well. No newcomers were tolerated. It was routine.

There was the girl.

The enigma to the routine. Wedged among the artists, moving when she grew bored or when one of the older men shooed her away, never in the same space twice. She sat, almost hidden, with an immense sketchbook propped up on her knees. Young. Very young. Her hair, he suspected, was blonde, but he could never be sure. It rarely strayed from under the scruffy cap she wore. Her face and hands were smudged black with charcoal. Her eyes were clear blue. She watched him. She always watched him. He found it fascinating.

Dr. Lecter walked on, never shifting his eyes from his path. Left foot, right foot… and then, without any outward reaction to acknowledge the change, he was no longer walking down the cobblestone street. Without conscious thought, it seemed, he had slipped into a higher plane of consciousness--trusting his feet to return him home without guidance--and retreated to his memory palace. He glanced around at his surroundings, breathing in sweet-smelling air. Yes, this place was far, far away from the loud hustle of the market. And the reek of fish. This place was inaccessible to anyone else. It was his. It was constructed of his hopes, and realities--his dreams, his memories, and his vast intellect. It housed his past, present, and future. It housed his soul.

He passed the cool marble of the Venus de Milo, and continued down one of the great corridors. It took only a moment for him to reach the Hall of Portraits; he entered, and wound his way through countless faces and profiles of individuals whom he had met, currently knew, or would meet some day. A whisper of honey caressed him, and he smiled. Ahead hung the photo-like image of a young girl. She had cherubic cheeks; baby curls complete with bright, intelligent eyes, and a charming grin. He caressed the portrait with a hand, and then kissed it reverently. Mischa was beautiful. His little angel; his sister sat in a place of honour here… a place where he could come and look and touch without remembering the horrific method of her departure.

He tried not to think about how much Mischa resembled the girl wedged between the easels on the Rue de Champlain.


End file.
